I hoisted open the hatch and it fell with a hard thud against the ground. I concentrated on keeping my voice steady. “This also connects to the tunnels the mules use,” I explained. “But if you stay to the left, that’s a way nobody else knows about. It will take you south.”
“To where?”
I glanced back at him. “That’s all my parents told me.”
The dark turned him into a shadow as he stalked toward me. “I’ll have to take you with me.”
“What?”
“We’re going down there together.”
I backed away, but since he blocked the door, there wasn’t anywhere to go. “Why?”
He tucked the White Monarch into his waistband with his other gun, grabbed my arm, and yanked me toward the entrance of the tunnel. I flew forward, no match for his strength. My heart leapt into my throat as everything happened in a flash. He couldn’t take me. He wouldn’t. Nobody dared cross my father—but Cristiano already had, and now, he had nothing left to lose. If he got me into that tunnel, I’d never return. Never see Diego again. My father. I wouldn’t attend my mother’s funeral.
“I helped you,” I said as more sobs bubbled up into my throat. I looked down the ladder. Since we were on the second floor, one push would send me flying some five meters down into the pitch dark. “Why are you doing this?”
“To show you that you can’t trust anyone. Not me, not Diego, maybe not even your parents. Just because you help someone doesn’t mean they won’t betray you.” He turned toward the ladder. “And because I need a head start. Get on my back.”
Once he released me, I switched into high gear. Perhaps he was known for his ruthlessness, but I’d spent my short life sneaking into places I shouldn’t, surprising even the stealthiest of my father’s guards. I grasped the White Monarch from his pants and stumbled back, leveling the pistol on him with both hands.
With the light at my back, I saw a hint of amusement flash in his eyes. “You don’t know true fear, little girl. It puts you in danger.”
I did know fear. I was staring at my mother’s murderer. I couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t hear over the deafening pounding of my heart.
Wherever Cristiano surfaced, my father would kill him.
Or I could save him the trouble and do it myself.
For the first time since I’d tripped over my mother’s dying body, calmness fell over me. Nobody had been able to stop Cristiano—not my mother or father, not Diego, and not security. I could, though. He deserved to die for his sins.
I urged myself to act, but something Cristiano had said stopped me. There is no justice. Was I sure, down to my very core, that he had done this? What if he hadn’t? I didn’t know him nearly as well as I did Diego. Cristiano was fourteen years older than me—a man. Despite his reputation as a cold-blooded killer, he had always treated me with kindness.
And my mother too.
But as he’d said—you couldn’t trust anyone in this world. Not even your own blood.
“Do it,” he invited.
Based on what I’d seen, I was pretty sure in order to shoot, I first had to slide the top of the gun toward me. But the firearm itself was so heavy, I needed both hands to keep it steady. I glanced at the top part to determine the best way to do this.
“Never hesitate, Natalia.” Cristiano snatched the pistol from me and pressed the muzzle to my forehead. “See? Bang. You’re dead.”
My breath caught in my throat. I was dead. Defenseless. Shivering like the little girl I was.
“And never draw a weapon you can’t operate. When you aim, kill.” He flicked a switch on the side, stuck the gun back in his pants, and grabbed me.
“Stop,” I cried and pushed against him as he hugged me to his chest with his arm.
“Hold on.” One-handedly, he quickly descended the ladder.
Instinctually, I wrapped my arms around his neck. He was the furthest thing from a safe place, but in that moment, I was no longer concerned with being brave. I was trapped. I gave into my fear, submitting to the warmth of his body, sobbing into his neck as he descended into the dark.
“Is there another key to the secret door?” he asked.
I sniffled. “My father keeps it on him.”
“He’s probably already on his way,” Cristiano said, almost consolingly. “They’ll find you eventually, Natalia. This is the only way I’ll be able to put enough distance between them and me.”
It was cold and black at the bottom. I shivered uncontrollably as he reached the final rung of the ladder and jumped the rest of the way. Never go down if you don’t have to, Father had said. You won’t be able to reach the ladder to get back up.
This was it. I was at Cristiano’s mercy now.
On solid ground, he took a few slow steps, feeling for a wall. When he found one, he squatted. “Sit here,” he said. “Don’t move until they come for you.”
I didn’t let go of his neck. The scent of his sweat and my tears mixed with the soil around us. I’d never been worried about the dark before, but I couldn’t even see my own hand.
“What if nobody comes?” I asked.
“They will. And by that time, I’ll be long gone.” He pulled at my arms. “You’re brave. Let go.”
I released him. The next thing I heard was his retreating footsteps. I sat against the wall, wrapped my arms around my knees, and held my breath. Tears flooded my eyes, overflowing onto my cheeks.
I’d always known the love and protection of my parents and their titles. Being the daughter of one of the most powerful drug lords in Mexico meant I’d been in danger since the day I was born—and also sheltered from everything.
No longer.
As the threat of Cristiano receded, I was left alone in the dark with the realization that my mother had kissed my cheek and tucked me in for the last time. Her lyrical voice would never again lull me to sleep and end each night with, “Te quiero mucho, mariposita.” There would be no more of her famous homemade “Talia taffy” for the rest of my birthdays, no more riding horses into town to shop for fabric or spices.
That morning, impatient to go, I’d hugged her waist and asked her to hurry up as she’d done her makeup. Now, I wished only to stay with her a little longer. I wished for more time.
But the parade was over.
Death’s day had come.
1
Natalia
Eleven years later
I ducked out of the helicopter and into dry desert air as the blades whipped wind through my hair. My father’s head of security offered a hand and helped me down. “Bienvenida a casa, señorita,” Barto called over the whir of the rotors.
Welcome home.
The pilot carried my bags to a black Suburban waiting on the tarmac. Somehow, the Mexican heat felt stronger than in California, the sun intense and unforgiving. I slipped my sunglasses into place and followed Barto to the car.
“How’s it feel to be back?” he asked.
No words could properly convey it. Leaving home for a boarding school in the United States had been my choice, but Father would’ve shipped me off even if it wasn’t. I both dreaded and anticipated coming here. California was safe, clean, easy. Nothing like this place, where danger haunted the streets. It was the thought of seeing Diego that lifted any sense of dread that came with getting into a car headed for home.
Barto glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “If I can say so, you look more and more like señora Cruz each time I see you.”
I had my mother’s light eyes, and her small, sharp nose, but our physical similarities stopped there. “I’m more like my father,” I said.
“But you have her grace.”
I swallowed. Regal was how my father often described her.
“And that determined look she often wore,” Barto added.
I didn’t doubt that. I wasn’t only home to spend time with my dad, catch up with friends, and celebrate Easter. I was here for Diego—my best friend and my love. The boy who knew all my secrets because he’d been the
re for many of them, if not physically, then a phone call away. But with the distance between us, we’d done enough talking for a lifetime. I couldn’t wait to just be close to him for the first time in a year.
Next summer, I’d be graduating, and I was dead set on having Diego in Santa Clara with me by then—permanently. But since my dad wanted the opposite, it would take some convincing.
Barto steered us up the long, winding drive lined with imported banana leaf trees. Men with AR-15s stood along the side of the dirt road, waving us on, smiling at me through the blacked-out windows.
Barto handled my luggage and sent me straight upstairs to see my father. At the threshold to Papá’s study at the south end of the mansion, I stopped when I heard his raised voice. “Do you have any idea the magnitude of what you’ve committed us to?”
“We can handle it.” When Diego spoke, a kaleidoscope of butterflies erupted in my stomach. “We’ve been refining our operation for over a decade, and it’s as close to perfect as it gets.”
“‘Close to perfect’ is not perfect,” came my father’s grave response.
“Nevertheless, we’re ready. With this partnership, we take things to the next level.”
I should’ve made my presence known. I’d found out at a young age that sneaking around was the only way to get information. Back then, it’d been exciting. Now, information was both powerful and burdensome. People who knew too much were targets. Witnesses. Leverage. The more you knew, the harder it was to escape this life.
And the more dangerous you became.
But my curiosity continued to burn the brightest flame, no matter how I tried to extinguish it. I resisted the old habit of removing my shoes to mute my steps, but I still peeked into the light-filled room, finally laying my eyes on Diego. He was as beautiful as ever. His normally silken brown hair had been kissed by the sun and was long enough to tuck behind his ears. He’d been working outdoors more, and it showed, not just in his skin tone and hair color, but in his broad, muscular shoulders. He stood straight and tall to address my father. I wanted to run and throw my arms around his neck, but Papá wouldn’t stand for it.
Patience, Diego had told me a million times before.
It had never been my strong suit.
“This is not a partnership.” Deep lines slatted across Papá’s tanned face. Each time I saw him, he appeared older, but his voice boomed, and his clear, molten brown eyes painted him as more youthful than his fifty years. He was as astute as ever, and his overbearing height defied how the bags under his eyes sometimes made him seem tired. “The Maldonado cartel is not a partner but a master,” he said. “With this deal, they’ll own us.”
I considered entering the room and cutting off the conversation, but the name stopped me short. Even I knew—and I made it my business not to know much anymore—doing business with the Maldonados was dangerous.
“Times have changed, Costa,” Diego said. “Eleven years ago, you reevaluated your business model, trading risk for security and violence for a quiet life—not that such a thing exists in this world. It’s time to adapt again.”
With my mother’s death, much had changed, and not just in the obvious ways. Father had scaled back his business as newer, more bloodthirsty cartels like the Maldonados had come up the ranks.
“My father would roll in his grave to know we’re not as feared as we once were,” my dad said, glancing out the window of his second-floor office.
Diego put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re still here, and we’re just as powerful, but in different ways.”
Diego spoke earnestly and with his hands. It was hard not to see his passion, intelligence, and charm, but that still wasn’t enough to convince Papá that Diego was the man for me. Nobody was good enough in my father’s eyes—especially not someone who belonged in this world. My father cared about Diego in his own way; he’d practically raised him. But unless I could convince him otherwise, Diego would always be a soldier, a right-hand man, a cartel member . . . and a threat to my safety.
“Many leaders of the old order have either been captured, killed, or forced out,” Diego continued. “Who of your former enemies remain? Not many. I’m going to ensure the Cruz cartel—and the de la Rosas—don’t fall to the same fate. We do that by moving forward with the times.”
“The de la Rosas don’t exist,” Father said, warning in his voice as he regarded Diego with heavy eyebrows. “You’re a Cruz. And while I know our success is as important to you as it is to me, there’s risk in wanting more. There’s much to be said for stability.”
“With new technology hitting the market each day, there’s more risk in staying still. We’re number one in shipping and logistics now, but that can always change.”
I leaned on the doorjamb, worried Diego was into something he shouldn’t be. If I asked either of them why they’d taken a meeting with the Maldonados in the first place, I’d get the same answer I always did.
Don’t worry. Todo bien. Everything’s fine.
My father rubbed his forehead as he frowned. “And making a risky deal is moving forward?”
“We’ll deliver,” Diego said, crossing his arms with a shrug. “Their requirements are no different than any of our other arrangements. They have a valuable shipment to get across the border. As the premier transportation option in México, we can make that happen. Simple.”
“The difference is who we’re dealing with. How much product are we moving?”
“More than we’re used to,” Diego admitted. “But I’m not concerned. As other cartels distract themselves battling each other, we’ve solidified a nearly flawless, strategic network. I’ve assured them an eighty-seven percent success rate.”
“Eighty-seven, eh?” Papá asked, slipping on his glasses to bend over and read his computer screen.
“Lower than our stellar average,” Diego said, pulling back his shoulders. “We’ve delivered better results countless times, and in less than the twenty-one days they’ve given us.”
“And after that?”
“We make a more permanent arrangement,” Diego said. “With the rate they’re growing, their business could take us to the next level.”
“I’ve been at that level,” Dad said. “It’s dangerous up there.”
“But those who were once your competitors are now your customers. You’ve neutralized.” Diego stuck his hands in his pockets and glanced out one of the study’s wide windows. “We’ll use the income the Maldonado deal generates to expand.”
Papá grunted. “You didn’t say how much we have to move.”
“Two-hundred million in product in three weeks.”
My father straightened up. “That’s almost four times what we normally do.”
“The amount doesn’t matter as much as—”
Papá held up a hand for Diego to stop when he saw me leaning in the doorway. “Mija,” he called, removing his glasses and opening his arms. “Ven aquí.”
He shut his laptop as I went to him, then surrounded me in a strong, protective embrace.
Over his shoulder, I met Diego’s gaze. His face had been pinched, but it eased as his eyes cleared to emerald green. Neither video chatting nor photos did the color of them justice. “Welcome home,” he mouthed.
Home. It had been once, but I found no comfort in the word now. Diego schooled his expression for my dad, but I knew him well enough to read his happiness to see me.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, reluctantly tearing my eyes from Diego to look up at Papá. “You were arguing.”
“Not at all. Don’t worry.” He kissed the top of my head, then turned to Diego. “Leave us.”
Diego didn’t flinch, though I knew the dismissal hurt. He yearned for my dad’s respect, but I could see age and experience had not fully earned him it. Yet. I didn’t doubt my father would one day see what I did, but I also knew it pained Diego that the approval he’d so desperately sought since his own father’s death continued to elude him.
I hoped during this trip I’
d be able to open my dad’s eyes to who Diego really was—a sensitive, creative man who’d been trapped by circumstance. My father wanted me out of this life, and I wanted that too, but to Papá, Diego was this life. I had to show him the potential Diego had outside of it.
With a short bow and a brief, promising wink in my direction, Diego exited the room.
My father took my shoulders and held me at arm’s length. “Let me look at you. Qué bella. Turn for me.”
“Papá.” I blushed. “Please.”
“I don’t get to see you often enough and want to commit every visit to memory.”
“We were together at Christmas.”
“But that was in California, not here, where I watched you grow up. Indulge your old man.”
Rolling my eyes playfully, I turned in a circle. “All my limbs intact as previously reported,” I said. “Fingers and toes too.”
“Your hair has grown. Do they not have salons in Santa Clara?”
I smiled. “Of course, but long hair is always in style.”
“You’re taller too, no? You get that from me.”
I had taken after my father’s side of the family and was the tallest of my girlfriends at five-foot-seven. He was a sturdy six-foot-two, my grandpa even taller, which had suited his far more menacing temperament.
Father liked to tell the story of an eighteen-year-old girl named Bianca who’d flown down from northern Mexico “like a migrating butterfly.” She’d come for a cousin’s quinceañera and stayed for love, caught in his net by the time dessert was served.
As romantic as it was, sometimes I wondered why she’d been stupid enough to trade a safe and happy life as a farmer’s daughter for this. It’d been foolish and risky, and it had gotten her killed. I wouldn’t share her fate, and neither would Diego.
I had to find a way to free him from the chains of the cartel so he could come to the States and start a life with me. I would convince my dad to let us go and live in peace rather than war, looking over the Pacific instead of over our shoulders.
Violent Delights (White Monarch Book 1) Page 2